The Man from NCIS
by OzGeek
Summary: Written for the NFA Man or Woman from N.C.I.S. challenge where the NCIS characters are transformed to the late 1960s as secret agents. Plot: evil genius creates a formula to decimate the world's food crops and NCIS must find it before the FBI: 6 Chapters.
1. Down the Gurgler

_This story was written for the NFA "The Man (or Woman) From N.C.I.S. Challenge" (see link on my profile). Its original title was "The Dead Man Packing Affair" but I changed the title for here so people would know what to expect. It's finished and 6 chapters long, weighing in at about 6000 words._

_This story is set in the late 1960s and reflects the camp plots of the Man from UNCLE / Get Smart / Batman era. They involved world threatening plots, ridiculous disguises and bizarre torture scenarios. If you are too young to have lived through these shows, take a moment now to give thanks. NCIS characters remain the same but Ducky is an ex-operative…and the FBI DOES exist to piss Gibbs off._

* * *

**The Dead Man Packing Affair**

_Somewhere in the late 1960s._

A sleek silver convertible sports car pulled up silently on the almost deserted road. As its gull-wing doors rose majestically, a tall, dark, well-groomed man dressed in a black suit and matching tie leaped lightly from his seat. The car doors subsided again, almost as if the car had taken a huge sigh, but the man did not notice: his attention was clearly focussed on the unassuming diner across the road. He gave the proprietor a cursory nod as he entered and headed for the men's bathroom.

Outside the bathroom door another man slumped casually against the wall, his face obscured by the newspaper he was reading at close quarters. Similarly groomed as the first, he wore a black turtleneck sweater and matching black pants. As the first man swung the bathroom door open, the second folded his paper, tucked it under one arm and followed him in one fluid motion.

The second and sixth stalls bore the signs "Out of Order", but the warnings proved no deterrent. The duo entered their respective stalls and, in a single choreographed motion, flushed the toilets.

The cubicles swung a full 180 degrees depositing Secret Agents Anthony DiNozzo and Timothy McGee into the florescent peach-walled lobby of NCIS: The National Confederacy of Intelligence Services.

A dark-haired woman strode up to them impatiently. "You are late," she chastised.

"Still wearing that rainbow sweater, Ziva," Tony noted.

She bestowed a smile on him, "It will never go out of style."

"It already has…", Tony's comment was cut short by a sharp thwack to the back of the head from his superior, Secret Agent Gibbs, who had appeared from nowhere.

"Unlike the back-of-the-head slap," Tony continued, "that could really catch on, Boss."

"Chief's office: Now."

* * *

"Gentleman," Chief Shepard began, "you may have heard of a Harold Bates."

"Genius biological scientist who was killed last week," Agent DiNozzo confirmed.

"Tragic boating accident," Agent McGee added.

"Tragic: yes. Accident: no," Shepard replied.

"Ma'am?"

"Sit please everyone," the Chief invited, perching on the edge of her desk.

When they were all settled, she began her tale. "Harold Bates developed a toxin that could destroy the world's crops. The FBI was in the process of torturing him for the formula when he inexplicably died."

Her lips tightened. The FBI – the Federation of Belligerent Institutions (or Forces: Brute and Ignorant as the NCIS agents like to refer to them), would like nothing better than to wipe out the world's crops leaving themselves as the only suppliers of all life-sustaining food.

"Suicide pill?" Gibbs ventured.

"Most likely," the Chief agreed. "We have reason to believe he may have ingested a vial containing the formula just before he died but the family have refused to release the body. They do not wish an autopsy."

"Wouldn't the FBI have already done one?" Tony queried.

"Their search patterns indicate they don't have the formula yet. In fact, they may not even know its whereabouts."

"So how do we get a hold of it?" asked Tony.

"He is being buried tomorrow. We need you to attend the funeral and help recover the vial before the FBI finds out what we're up to. But be careful: you can rest assured Fornell and his men will be all over the place."

McGee blanched. "Recover the vial? Like, what? Ahh, cut it out?"

"Relax, Mr McGee," the Chief replied. "We've called in an expert for the actual extraction: Agent Ducky will be performing the honors. Your job will be to protect him and make sure he has the time he needs to get the job done."

"Won't the FBI agents recognise us?"

"Not if your disguises are good enough," the Chief replied.

"Disguised as?" prompted McGee with an anticipatory cringe.

"Hippies, Mr McGee," smiled the Chief with just a hint of enjoyment at his unease. "The funeral will be held at the local hippy commune. A is waiting for you in the lab. She has some toys that might make your life a little easier. Agent Ducky will make contact with you when you arrive."


	2. Disguises

**Chapter 2: Disguises**

The door to A's lab swished open to reveal a riot of colourful bubble patterns circling the walls. Bizarre Indian music twanged distantly. A stood at her lab bench, expertly wielding a soldering iron. Her attire was, as always, eye catching. On this occasion she wore a purple tie die shirt pinched in at the waist with a red scarf. While standing, it almost fell to below her buttock line. The outfit was complemented by knee high, hot pink, shiny vinyl boots. Her raven black hair was in its usual double pigtail style, held in place by natural hemp thread

"Oh hi guys," A greeted Tony and McGee as they entered.

"The Chief said you might have something to help us on our latest mission," Tony said, inadvertently running into McGee who had frozen to the spot with his eyes glued on A's hemline.

"Have I got some toys for you?!" Promised A. "But first, you need to get dressed."

She indicated an array of colourful paisley prints and tie-die material which looked like it had been vomited onto her lab bench after a particularly potent drug cocktail.

McGee picked up a green tie-died shirt with his fingertips. "This?" he asked in disgust.

"Com'on McGee," A encouraged, "it will look great with your eyes. Now hurry up. You two are about the same size so the fastest one gets the better outfit."

Tony and McGee started shifting hesitantly through the collection trying to find ANYTHING they would be caught dead in (always an operation consideration).

"Well I love it," Ziva enthused, emerging from a rear room of the lab resplendent in a bright orange swirl pattern mini-dress with matching thigh-high orange vinyl boots. "I have just the hat to wear with this."

"Is there a matching bucket?" asked Tony.

"What's Gibbs wearing?" McGee asked, grimacing as his hand brushed against a particularly grotesque pair of yellow pants.

"This."

They turned to see Gibbs dressed in his traditional suit and tie.

"You're not going to the funeral, Boss?" asked Tony.

"Someone has to be backup."

"But," Tony started.

"Don't even think it, DiNozzo."

"No Boss." Tony sighed resolutely. "What else have you got for us A?"

"First: your headbands and wigs."

"Our what?" McGee squeaked.

"You have to have headbands and long scraggly hair for a hippy funeral: it's absolutely de rigour, no pun intended." She held up a dark shaggy wig encircled by a psychedelic floral headband in tones of orange, red and green. "There is a hidden camera inside this flower here."

Tony frowned at the obviously enlarged flora. "Don't they come any smaller?"

"Not this decade," said A. "Now pay attention: the headphones are fitted under the actual wig so you can hear each other."

"Where's the mike," asked McGee.

"I'm glad you asked!" A held up a bristled fake moustache. "This is where you hide your microphone."

"A moustache?"

"Or I could put it in your shoe," A offered. "But then you'd have to take your shoe off every time you talked and that would look pretty obvious."

"That's just silly," Tony agreed.

"The mike feed goes back to Gibbs in the van." A turned to Gibbs. "It's a pity you're not dressing up Gibbs," she pouted. "I like you with a bit of facial hair." She stuck a moustache on his upper lip and admired the effect.

"No offence, Boss," said Tony, "but you look like a Mexican hobo, fresh from your beach shack."

Gibbs glared at him, peeled off the moustache and planted it firmly in A's hand.

"Ahhh, A," Ziva started uncertainly.

"Yes?"

"Um, won't I look suspicious with a moustache?"

"Not really, many hippy women don't shave."

Tony gave an involuntary shudder.

"But," A continued, "in case it bothered you: I have these!"

She held up two circular hairy patches.

"And these are?" Ziva prompted.

"Armpit hair: wired for sound," A informed her happily. "All you have to do is raise up an arm and speak into it." She thrust the flattened caterpillars into Ziva's dubious hands.

"Do we get any toys?" asked Tony, eyeing Ziva's follicle appendages.

"Ahh, for you my pretty I have an extra special treat," A smiled kindly. "Glasses."

Tony fingered the dark horn rimmed spectacles suspiciously. "James Bond couldn't score in these."

"X-ray vision…..."

Tony rammed the glasses onto his head.

"Is what you'd like them to give you," A continued, "but in fact they are thermal. You can see any cold spots on someone who is, say, wearing a gun."

"No explosions?" Tony whined.

"This is a covert op, Tony," A reminded him.

"But I like explosions."

A put a consolatory arm around him. "You can blow something up in my lab when you get back, OK?"

"Ok," Tony sniffed and smiled through the tears.

"You will also all be getting a freezing cigarette."

"A what?"

"It's basically a roll your own cigarette but instead of the usual stuff, you'll be rolling my own special blend of statue smoke. It gives off a smoke that freezes all who breath it into statues for about a minute, depending on exposure time."

"What about us?" Tony started.

"Unless," A glared at him, "you are chewing the anti-statue gas gum. Remember you actually have to be masticating, it can't just be in your mouth." She handed out strips of chewing gum to all the agents. "Spread yourself out around the room and try to get good coverage. Just remember not to inhale."

"Not a problem for Probie," Tony noted, earning McGee's ire.

"OK, boys: go and get dressed," said A, playfully balancing a wig on McGee's head.

McGee peered unhappily through the shaggy veil. "I am never having long hair," he vowed.


	3. Old Friends

**Chapter 3: Old Friends**

The funeral was, typically, a rather sombre affair though the mood was offset by the rather colourful attire of the guests.

"Were you friends of Harold's from the greeting card company?" enquired an old lady at the door.

"Yes," said Tony, "we are very sorry for your loss."

"Do you do sympathy cards?"

"Ahhh sure: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I'm glad I'm not, as dead as you."

Fortunately for Tony, the old lady was severely deaf. "Thank you," she said kindly and let them pass.

As the group walked casually up to the open casket at the far end of the room, Tony scanned the scene with his glasses. At least six non-NCIS guests were carrying concealed firearms but whether they were disguised FBI agents or just regular gun-totting peaceniks was anyone's guess. "I got six possible FBI agents in here, Boss," he said quietly into his upper lip.

"There's someone I recognise," said Ziva with a nod of her head.

"You mean the guy in the dress with an afro the size of a small A-bomb?" asked Tony.

"Yes I do."

"How does keep his balance with that thing on his head?"

"I'll go ask," Ziva offered, taking a step.

"No!" Tony grabbed her arm.

"What's going on?" Gibbs' voice glowered in their ears.

"Sacks," Tony muttered.

The man who had once almost killed Tony was wearing a highly ornate Kaftan and sporting an afro almost two feet in diameter. His disguise was at best comical, at worst boarding on criminal insanity. Although Tony was tempted to kill Sacks where he stood, both for personal and stylist reasons, doing it in front of a room full of FBI agents during a convert operation was just asking for trouble.

"Maybe I should go and feel him up," suggested Ziva vindictively.

"Chat him up?" McGee corrected absently trying re-roll the cigarette which was disintegrating in his hands.

"Yes, that would probably come first."

Tony looked at McGee's clumsy attempts to capture the leaves flaking out of his cigarette. "What are you doing? Can't you smoke and chew gum at the same time? I thought you had a degree in bio-stuff and a Masters in some other thingies."

"We didn't have to roll our own," McGee grumbled.

"In my day you had to have a PhD to be a special agent," Ducky pointed out, appearing at McGee's side.

"Ducky!" Tony greeted the old agent. "What's the story on the body?"

"Well, it's lying over here in an open casket. It is generally frowned upon in polite company to slice open the guest of honor in front of his family."

"As soon as McGee gets his act together, we'll get working on freezing them."

McGee looked up with a hassled half-smile.

"Well, hurry it along, Timothy," urged Ducky, "all these living people make me nervous. I think I've already been spotted by an old friend from the other side."

"Which 'other side'?" Tony queried.

"Not that 'other side'," Ducky snapped impatiently, "FBI other side. Oh can we just get on with it, mother thinks I've just gone out for juice."

"Tony," Gibbs' voice echoed loudly in Tony's hair.

"Yeah, boss."

"I think Ziva needs a bit of help."

Tony looked across the room and saw Ziva, one hand planted firmly on the wall above her to reveal her glorious armpit locks, talking to FBI agent Sacks. For his part, Sacks was alternating uncomfortably between looking at Ziva's face and the bushy strands hanging in front of his mouth. It was unlikely he had the presence of mind to recognise Ziva. She, on the other hand looked like she was eyeing his carotid artery.

"On my way boss," said Tony quietly.

Hoping A's disguise was good enough; Tony arrived at Sacks' elbow. "Hey, how's it going, man?" he asked cordially.

Sacks eyed Tony suspiciously, "Fine."

"Glad to hear it. She's here with me."

"Thank God." Sacks beat a hasty retreat.

"What was that for, Tony?"

Tony spoke directly into the hairs dangling before him. "You're not a black widow, this is a covert op. You don't just go around slaying everyone in the room."

"Just one?"

"No, not if we can help it."

"I don't need to hear this twice, DiNozzo," Gibbs complained. "Move away from Ziva's microphone."

"Microphone?" Tony's head suddenly jerked back from Ziva's armpit. "Sorry, I just liked the smell."

"You are disgusting, Tony," Ziva snarled.

"McGee's ready," Gibbs reported. Then the line suddenly went dead.

Ziva and Tony exchanged worried glances but there was no time to consider the implications: McGee was lighting his cigarette. They followed suit and began to stroll around the room causally blowing smoke over everyone. Slowly the noxious gas filled the room and one by one the guests froze where they stood.

"Go, Ducky," called Tony, "we don't have long."

Ducky undid the corpse's tuxedo buttons and spread the two halves slightly. Then he started on the shirt buttons, slowly fiddling them out one by one until there was enough space to make an incision.

Slicing through the skin to the organs below, he paused. "Did this man have no respect for his body? Just look at that."

"Ducky, please," Tony urged.

"What? Oh right. Here it is, got the little blighter." He pocketed the vial and inserted three quick stitches to hold the skin together. Then he began the laborious task of re-buttoning the shirt.

One of the statues near McGee and Ducky started stirring.

"McGee," Tony called urgently, "big puff!"

Such was McGee co-ordination that he simultaneously swallowed the chewing gum while accidentally inhaling the smoke and promptly froze.

"Nice work, Probie," Tony moaned. "Ziva, get Ducky to the van. Don't wait for us."

"But.."

"Go!"

Ziva grabbed Ducky and dragged him out the door, ignoring his protestations about finished the job properly.

Tony raced for McGee and hoisted him into a fireman's lift.

"Hey!"

Tony swore: the man was unfrozen, reaching for his weapon and with McGee in this position, there was no way he could reach his own Walther. Then, through the corpse's clothing, he spied it with his glasses – looks like Harold's last wish was to be buried with his gun. A quick grab at decease's inside jacket, a single shot and the unfrozen man went down.

"So much for covert," Tony hissed, staggering heavily under McGee's weight as he slalomed through the rapidly defrosting bodies and out the door.

* * *

"Jethro, I'm ashamed of you: violating a funeral like that."

Gibbs spun around in his seat and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

"Tobias," he greeted cordially.

"The only reason I'm not shooting you right now is because you're paying half my alimony," Fornell pointed out.

"I did warn you about her."

"I assumed you were exaggerating, we're not exactly on recommendation terms."

"That was the idea," Gibbs said dryly.

"What are you and your men doing here, Jethro?"

"Just paying our last respects: you?"

"The same. So do your people think he still has the formula on him, or that the family has it and is going to sell it to the highest bidder?"

"You really expect me to answer that?"

"Not really, I'm just thinking out aloud. Nice outfits on your agents by the way, the matching headbands were a nice touch."

"At least it's not an afro to the moon," Gibbs commented.

"I told him not to but, what can you do, these young folk just don't listen."

Fornell's gun jumped as Gibbs reached inside his jacket pocket.

"It's just gum, Tobias."

"You don't strike me as the gum chewing type."

"There's lots about me you don't know," said Gibbs popping the gum into his mouth. "For instance…" he reached into his jacket pocket again and pulled out a cigarette.

"You gotta be kidding me?" said Fornell incredulously.

"You want one?"

"No!"

"Well, do you mind if I light this while we're waiting."

"Go ahead."

"Thanks, Tobias."

* * *

Ziva and Ducky paused to consider why FBI agent Fornell was lying on the sidewalk beside their van, gagged and chained to a lamp post by the hand he was pointing in the air, then thought better of it.

"Keep chewing," Gibbs warned as they opened the rear door and a cloud of smoke billowed out.

"Here, Jethro," Ducky offered the vial.

"Good work, Duck," said Gibbs. "Where are DiNozzo and McGee?"

"They had something to deal with," Ziva replied.

Suddenly Tony appeared around a corner, carrying a still frozen McGee over one shoulder. "A little help boss," he called out.

Behind them, Gibbs could see a crowd of FBI agents, guns draw. "Ziva, drive," he yelled. He reached out from the van to grab for Tony but the mob took him and McGee down. "Damn it," he swore as the van speed off into the distance carrying its valuable cargo with it.


	4. Obligatory torture scene

**Chapter 4: Obligatory torture scene**

Tony groaned as his brain clawed its way back to reality. At his head, there was a fierce heat. Behind him, he could feel his wrists bound tightly together with thick twine. In fact he seemed to have four hands. As he became more aware of his surroundings he realised his was lying on his side crammed into a hard wooden box with his back against another person who was also bound. The box was rocking slightly – no moving, moving slowly with a rumbling motion. He cracked open an eyelid.

Fornell's face filled his view. "Nice of you to join us, Mr DiNozzo."

"Why do you pronounce my name like that?" Tony demanded.

"It's a reflex: every time I say your name, the bile rises in my throat."

"I thought I killed you ages ago," complained Sacks appearing at Fornell's side.

"You almost had me with that hair," said Tony, "It must have been painful when the Jackson 5 rejected you."

Tony felt the person behind him move a little and Sacks disappeared from view.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr McGee," mocked Sacks, mimicking Fornell. "What is it with you NCIS agents? Why to you all have to have such complicated surnames with 'Mc' or 'Di'. Why isn't anyone named 'Smith' or …?"

"Sacks?" suggested Tony.

"Yeah," Sacks agreed.

"Gibbs, is simple," Tony commented, trying to draw Sack's attention from McGee.

"I'll tell him you said that," said Fornell, "at your wake."

"You're pretty cocky for a guy without a crop killing formula," Tony bated.

"Well, you're pretty cocky for a guy about to be cremated in a coffin built for two," Fornell countered. "Handy things, funeral parlours – they come equipped with everything you need to convert your enemies into a smouldering pile of ash. You'll notice you are steadily getting hotter: there's a nice conveyor belt taking you to an oven preheated to 1500 degrees Fahrenheit. Of course, you might be distracted by the bucket hanging over your heads full to the brim with maggots and rats. It's designed to tip in 30 seconds."

Tony turned his head slightly and spied a red bucket almost directly above them. "Haven't you got something better to do than sit around researching phobias and devising ways to kill NCIS agents?" he asked, feeling the sweat trickling down his face.

"Well, yes," Fornell replied thoughtfully. "I could, for example, be decimating the world's food crops but, oh that's right: someone stole the formula."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be: I have a couple of bargaining chips packed in a coffin," Sacks gloated. "One quick trade, for your lives incidentally, and the FBI will destroy the free market crops and control the food supply to every nation on the planet."

Tony waited for the maniacal 'Bwhahah' laugh but it didn't eventuate.

"Gibbs would never trade with you," McGee rasped, finally joining in the game.

"I'm not trading with Gibbs," said Fornell, "I'm targeting someone far more – in touch with her emotions."

Tony felt McGee stiffen behind him – Fornell was trading with A: their lives for the formula, or so she would think.

"So if you gentlemen will excuse us, we have a date with a certain young lady." Fornell turned and disappeared from Tony's view.

"Goodbye Agent DiNozzo," called Sacks in the distance.

"It's not the first time you've tried to kill me," Tony yelled as the door slammed shut, "and it won't be the last." He waited a heartbeat to ensure they were really gone. "I'll race you Probie," he called, using one fingernail to tease a sharp blade from his watchband.

"Too late," McGee said, sitting up and rubbing his wrists.

"I hadn't even said 'go' yet," Tony complained sitting up beside him and bashing his head on the seething bucket overhead. "Man, this place is hot."

"Well, maybe we should leave," McGee suggested as they clambered out of the coffin. "So how do we get out the door?"

"It's probably not locked."

McGee shot him a withering look and placed his hand on the door handle. "What sort of bad guy doesn't bother…..oh."

"Don't feel bad," Tony clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Years of experience."

As the door shut, a coffin lid opened and a hesitant face accessorised with small round glasses and topped with brown curly hair popped up. "Holy smoke, Batman," the face owner said, "that was close".

A petit Asian woman joined him to peer over the rim of the coffin, just managing to not roll her eyes at him. If this guy was going to be her man, he was going to have to come up with better expletives. At least she'd shifted him away from 'Gee willikers': People named Jimmy could not afford to use that. "Let's get out of here," she said.

* * *

The street outside the funeral parlour was almost deserted. Tony and McGee strode nonchalantly to the nearest phone box and dialled Gibbs' number on the rotary dial.

"How do you use these telephone things?" Gibbs snarled as he answered.

"Ahh, hi Boss," Tony started.

"It's about time, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled. "A has already left for the trade."

"You'd trade for us, Boss?" said Tony, touched.

"A devised a formula for a super strength fertilizer," said Gibbs. "They use that and even crops in the desert will grow. Get back to headquarters; you two have work to do." The phone went dead.

Tony hung up the hand piece and turned slowly to McGee.

"So did the Boss miss us much?" McGee asked, expectantly.

"I don't think so Probie. Com' on, we have to get back to headquarters."

"We could catch a ride with Palmer and Lee," said McGee pointing to the NCIS pair climbing into a car not 50 feet from them.

"Those two turn up in the strangest places."


	5. Technology

**Chapter 5: Technology**

Music attempted to blare through the computer room but it was no match for the defending electronic hum from the racked equipment which stood in row after parallel row through the room. Colourful wires criss-crossed the front panels, tapes spun sporadically and lights flashed in magical dances.

"How's it going A?" called Gibbs.

A looked up from her cassette player where she was jacking up the volume to maximum. "Well I broke out the litmus paper and warmed up the Bunsen burners in my lab but when I opened the vial, there was just a piece of paper with two lines of characters on it: letters and numbers all over the place. I was sort of hoping for liquid or powder or something I could perform real science on."

Gibbs stabbed the cassette player with his finger, putting it out of its misery. "What's on the paper?" he yelled over the residual noise.

"Gibbs," A whined, "that was the White album."

"It's a code, Boss," called McGee from a bench where he was typing into a large manual punch card typewriter. In deference to the huge volume of heat being pumped out by the electronics, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his tie hung loosely around his neck allowing room for two shirt buttons to be undone.

"What sort of code?"

"That's just what we're going to figure out," said A. "I've got Bertha all excited."

Bertha the computer whirred happily in the background at the mention of her name.

"McGee and I have been loading up 20 inch tapes all morning so Bertha will have all the data she needs to crack this. I've started doing some preliminary calculations and once McGee gets the FORTRAN code punched onto the cards, we can start correlating. Then in just a few days, Bertha will have cracked the code."

"Days?"

"Yeah: she's the latest IBM 360. McGee found a way to make her faster by installing a second 256 K of core memory: now she's state of the art!"

"A," Gibbs cut her off, depositing a caf-soda in her awaiting hands. "I don't care. Let me know when you're done."

_A few days later_….

"Anything A?"

A and McGee looked up from the system consol. "How do you do that?" asked A, "This program has been running two days, 6 hours and 34 minutes and you walk in two nanoseconds after the results pop out."

"And?"

A walked over to the printer which was spewing out endless reams of sprocket-hole fringed tractor paper. "There's good news and there's bad news," she said scanning the output.

"There's fresh caf-soda and there's caf-soda poured down the drain," Gibbs replied.

"Right," A focused with renewed vigour. "The good news is that the first line of the code is definitely a formula. Bertha was able to match the symbols against an ancient chemistry text but the strange thing is it basically stops in the middle of a molecule. This thing can just not exist, it needs more."

"And," McGee added, joining A at the printer, "there are a huge number of combinations that could come next."

"Bertha has tried correlating against known molecules but the best she's come up with is sugar."

"And of course there is no way to be sure that there isn't more of the formula after that," McGee jumped in again. "Just because the characters cut out in the middle of one molecule doesn't mean there aren't more coming."

"And then," A continued shaking the printer output, "there is the second line. Bertha just can't make heads or tails of it."

Gibbs frowned. "Show me"

A crossed to the bench, collected her notepad and handed it over to Gibbs who squinted at the markings. A had copied the original coded message but it was now annotated with doodles of paisley skulls.

Finally Gibbs looked up. "That's a locker number," he said succinctly.

"A what?"

"A locker number: Union Station," Gibbs repeated, "and this," he pointed to the last four numbers, "is its combination."

"Ahhhh, wow," said A, stunned.

"He only gave us half the formula and put the other half in storage. That's good work A," said Gibbs, rewarding her with the caf-soda.

A pouted, "But Bertha didn't even get close to that bit."

Gibbs gave her an almost sympathetic smile. "Computers will never solve these cases, A. McGee!"

"Boss?"

"With me."

* * *

"Squad room," announced the elevator operator, levering the door open.

Gibbs and McGee alighted. The squad room was a hive of activity with banks of mini-clad women tapping diligently at typewriters, their fingers flying over the keys.

The elevator operator scanned the room calling, "Going down?" When no one answered her call, she closed the door with a thunk of her lever and was away.

"Get your gear," Gibbs called out over the clatter.

Tony and Ziva grabbed their badges and guns but McGee paused to admire his pride and joy: a new electric Remington typewriter. He had an older manual one at home which he treasured but he still enjoyed his state-of-the-art machine at work.

"You know we have people to type up reports, Probie," Tony pointed out. "Look at these beautiful unmarried women in their miniskirts. If we all typed up our own reports, they'd all loose their jobs."

McGee looked, saw Tony was kitted up and ready to go, caught Gibbs' expression and hastily grabbed his gun and badge and ran. "It's the way of the future, Tony," he remarked as they raced to the elevator to await the return of the operator.


	6. Resolution

**Chapter 6: Resolution**

Gibbs' eyes roamed the waiting area of the grand old train station. As usual, it was alive with the hustle and bustle of every day citizens going about their daily lives, completely oblivious to the fact their warm cosy normalcy hung by a thread. At any moment their world could turn upside down.

McGee, Tony and Ziva were blending in with the crowd performing ordinary mundane tasks: Tony doing a crossword, McGee getting a shoe shine and Ziva using a public phone booth. Over at the bar he spotted the new guy, Palmer. He seemed to be taking this job more seriously than the funeral one where he just disappeared. The Chief must have had a stern talk with him. Looks like she also sent a more senior agent to help out for Palmer was getting very cosy with that Asian Agent from Legal. In fact, their behaviour was bordering on embarrassing. Gibbs approved: any activity which forced people to avert their eyes was a good for an agent under cover.

After a few more furtive glances, Gibbs grasped the locker's combination lock firmly and punched in the numbers Bates had ingested more than a week earlier. A relieved smile almost crept across his lips as the mechanism slid smoothly into alignment and the lock released its grasp. The locker handle gave a solid clunk as he levered it and the door swung open slowly with the ominous squeal of a dry hinge, bereft of oil for too long. Inside the small orifice lay a sealed envelope. Gibbs picked it up with a handkerchief and secured it in his breast pocket.

As he turned to leave, almost every person in the train station put down a paper and rose to meet him, guns in hand. A few unarmed inhabitants scuttled for cover like cockroaches. A train announcement echoed hollowly over the loud speaker but no one moved.

"Doesn't anyone have a train to catch?" Gibbs called out, mentally checking the odds.

An old man in a wheelchair raised a hesitant hand but the ancient fossil of a woman pushing his chair grabbed his arm and pulled it down violently.

Then the gunfire broke out….

Two minutes later, the ground was strewn with FBI agents with only six remaining upright. Unfortunately, each had a weapon trained on a corresponding NCIS agent: the fight was in stalemate.

Then suddenly six gunshots sounded in quick succession and the remaining FBI agents collapsed to the ground.

"In my day, you had backup," grumbled the wheelchair-bound old man, throwing the blanket from his knees and clambering to a stand while peeling off a mask.

"Ducky?" said Gibbs.

"Well you didn't think I trust you lot to get this job done?"

"Honestly, Donald," said the geriatric lady pushing the chair, "they're old enough to do their own things now."

The team waited with baited breath for the moment the woman would remove her ridiculously elderly disguise to reveal Ducky's accomplice – but it never came.

"Yes," Ducky conceded, "I'm sure you're right mother."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs snapped.

Tony's head jerked up.

"Your 10 o'clock."

Tony quickly flattened the offending hair. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs surveyed the room again: dead FBI agents carpeting the floor, NCIS agents all without a hair out of place - almost perfect. His only regret was that Fornell was absent from the FBI body count having been arrested for kidnapping when he and Sacks went to meet A. He would have liked to see him suffer.

No matter: he had plenty more ex-wives to foist on him.

* * *

"Ladies and gentleman," the Chief greeted as they gathered in her small office. "Congratulations on a job well done: Fornell and Sacks are behind bars, the FDA is formulating an antidote to Bate's formula and A has was able to modify the original chemical into a potent foot powder."

"The FDA?" asked Tony. "That's still the Food and Drug Administration, right?"

"What else would it be? The FDA has been called the FDA since 1930. You act as though perfectly familiar acronyms get changed all the time."

"Well," said Gibbs, "I'm glad that the FBI's plans are foiled once again."

"Don't get too comfortable," warned the Chief. "We've had reports that Lt. Col. Mann and her ACID agents are planning another art robbery to finance their plans to assimilate all the people of the world. Here is your new mission." She started handing out manila folders.

Gibb's eyes narrowed in loathing as he read his new orders. ACID – Acrimonious Criminals for Intrusion and Domination was a new player on the block but he and Mann had already formed a strong nemesis relationship. Heck, he had even taken to one of her walls with a sledgehammer. Maybe he could get her interested in Fornell and kill two birds with one stone.

"It's sad really," Tony reflected as they filed out of the Chief's office. "Bates was such a genius. If only he had used his crop poison for niceness instead of evil."

Thwack! "Don't get smart, DiNozzo."

--END--


End file.
